Scars and Puncture Marks and Blood
by starwarsfreak95
Summary: Sherlock is dead. John just cannot cope with the guilt and the loneliness. He takes up some negative behaviors to try to keep the pain away. But on the night that John is about to end it all, he is stopped by the last person he expected to see- Sherlock Holmes, returned from the dead. Rated T for suicidal thoughts, self-harm, drugs, and alcohol.


John didn't know how it had come to this. It had been so long since… Since the fall. He couldn't even remember anymore. This was probably why. John was on his 5th pint of the night, and wasn't going to stop until they kicked him out.

Tonight, they kicked him out early. That was fine, he'd find something else of… his when he got back to 221b. Mrs. Hudson hadn't kicked him out yet, but it was only a matter of time. He was a mess. A mess of pain, hurt, guilt, loneliness, anger… Everything. If it was negative or hurtful, he felt it. The feelings were eating him alive inside. The largest was guilt. If he had just thought a little more, observed a little better, done something to fix things so that his best friend in the world wasn't coming apart at the seams, John could have saved him.

Him being Sherlock. There. It was so hard to say the man's name, even in his head. John let himself in the flat, with some difficulty. Suddenly, the flat was too much. John collapsed on the floor with his head in his arms on Sherlock's leather chair.

After a few minutes, he rolled up the long sleeves of his jumper and looked at his arms. His once mostly unmarked arms were now covered in puncture marks and thin white scars in various stages of healing, the story of his misery. The story of his guilt.

John was broken.

"Horrible, isn't it?," he said to the skull on the mantlepiece, "I never was much of anything, now I'm less than nothing. It's probably only Mycroft that's seeing that I've a place to stay." John looked up at it, "Do you remember where any more of Sherlock's store was? I know I probably shouldn't mix anything with the alcohol, but for the love of God I just don't care anymore." The skull was silent, as usual. "Now I know why he got tired of talking to you," John grumbled, "it's a bit of a bummer when you don't talk back."

John looked around, then decided he probably coudn't get up at the moment. He felt around under the chair for the package of razorblades he'd gotten from Sherlock's bathroom cabinet. He was really fond of the irony. He'd failed and allowed Sherlock to be hurt, so he'd use Sherlock's things to make sure he got his due.

I'm so sorry, Sherlock… Forgive me?...

Sherlock shuddered as he read the information Molly brought him. Finally, he had finished what he'd had to do, and he could finally go back to Baker Street. He had been thrilled until he requested some information on John, so he could find out what his old friend had been up to.

"Sherlock.." Molly began, "John's been in a bad way. He won't talk to Lestrade anymore, or Mycroft, or anyone. I talked to Mrs. Hudson, and she gave me the name of the bar that he practically lives in most days."

Sherlock was baffled. Could this be his fault? Surely John wasn't so devastated by his death, he wasn't even sure that the doctor really enjoyed putting up with him most days.

"Why?" He asked Molly in shock.

"Because, no matter what you think he thinks, he cares more for you than you know. From what I gathered, he'd been about to give up after coming back from Afghanistan. Living with you changed all that. After you died, I think he lost his reason to live. He went back to therapy for a while, but I don't think he stayed with it. From what Lestrade hinted, they'd gotten John out of trouble when they could and did what they could for him, but that there wasn't much of him left."

"Oh, God…" Sherlock whispered. Molly simply nodded.

"I must go to Baker Street at once!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah, you do."

Sherlock just ran out without speaking, not trusting his voice.

Where was justice? John wondered. If justice was real, the blood running down his arms and staining his jumper would hurt. But the reality was that nothing hurt anymore. Nothing. Not the needle pricks, not the blades, not the hangovers, nothing. Not even the withdrawal hurt. It all paled to the pain that lived constantly in his chest.

"We could have figured it out!" John shouted at the ceiling, "we could have figured it out, you idiot! I know you were lying to me! You're not a lie! Moriarty was real!" John began sobbing again. "Why'd you do this? I don't have anything left! I didn't have anything, then I met you. I had a reason to live after the horrors that I saw. After the war. But then you had to take it all away! I hate you!" John screamed that last at the top of his lungs, "I hate you, Sherlock Holmes! I hate you but I miss you so much..." He trailed off into tears, leaning his head on the leather chair again and passing out, not seeing the familiar figure standing in the doorway in shock.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He walked into the flat to find John a disaster. Eyes bloodshot, the entire flat smelled of alcohol and nicotine smoke. John's jumper seemed to be hanging off of him. Then Sherlock looked at John's forearms. Sherlock had a flashback of a time when his arms had looked like that. Scars and puncture marks and blood. Always blood. He had an extremely strong stomach, but seeing John like that almost made Sherlock throw up. Then he felt a very strange emotion. Guilt. This was HIS fault. There really wasn't any denying it. All the facts lined up. Even down to his razor blades on the floor by John's feet. Some instinct told Sherlock that everything he'd hidden had been found. Not just found, but used, to judge by the puncture marks on John's arms.

After a moment, Sherlock swallowed his emotions and ran to his friend. He picked John up and laid him on the couch. After gathering a large assortment of medical supplies, he began to doctor up his friend as much as possible. Rubbing alcohol and bandages for the cuts and puncture marks, then a cold compress for his face to help with the inevitable hangover headache. After taking care of John, Sherlock covered him in a blanket and left two Tylenol and a glass of water within reach.

Next, Sherlock had to clean up. He threw away all of the bloody razor blades, then wiped up John's blood. He then began to tidy the flat. Once the place looked something resembling normal, he went to make a cup of tea. He put the kettle on, then sat at the table and ran his hands through his already messy dark hair. Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock collapsed into tears at the table.

I'm so sorry, John….

John woke up suddenly, not sure where he was. Oh, how familiar that feeling had become. He realized that his arms were bandaged carefully, and that he had a cold compress on his face. Taking it off, he saw the Tylenol and the water. Mrs. Hudson again, he presumed. Suddenly, John heard a repeat of the noise that had woken him. He was on red alert until he identified the sound as sniffling. Sobbing even. Who was crying?

His curiosity got the better of him, and he crept into the kitchen. He gasped quietly at the sight. It was Sherlock. In 221b's kitchen. Crying, of all things. Sherlock looked up at the sound of John's gasp. John saw tears running freely down his best down his best friend's face.

"Are you," John shook his head, clearing it a bit, "are you real?" John saw Sherlock's face fall slightly.

"Yes John," the familiar baritone said, sounding much like it had on the phone before the fall, "I'm very very real."

"I knew it… I knew I shouldn't have taken the unmarked pills," John muttered, seeing Sherlock's face fall a tiny bit, "Why would you even have something like that? You hate when your ability to observed is impaired, so why would you own something that would make you see things that aren't there? It's not logical." John shook his head in bewilderment.

"Because I wouldn't, John," Sherlock said with a pain in his face so obvious even in his state John could see it.

"You.. You're real?" John asked, hope rising in his heart, "You're actually here? Not dead?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock said with the trace of a smile on his face. They stared at each other for a minute, then Sherlock ran over to John and hugged him. When John felt Sherlock touch him, it seemed like a a load was taken off of his shoulders. Without even thinking of what anyone else might think, John Watson began sobbing into Sherlock's coat.

The fact that John simply began weeping into his coat without a word said more about his mental state than he thought. Sherlock felt more tears falling from his face as he realized exactly what he'd done to John. Hearing John say he was a hallucination was almost more than he could bear. The other things that implied were even worse. If he were to look, there probably wouldn't be anything left of any of his stashes. Sherlock's heart broke as he thought of what it would take to get John into that state. He hated himself. He, Sherlock Holmes, master of deleting emotions, hated himself for what he did to his friend.

Soon, John got himself together and they sat down in their respective chairs.

"Why, Sherlock?" he asked, just that. Sherlock swallowed a few times before he could speak.

"Because Moriarty had gunmen on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. The only people in the world who I actually care about," Sherlock replied with a tremor in his voice, "I used my time of being dead to destroy Moriarty's criminal web. I couldn't tell anyone I was alive. The only one who knew was Molly, but that's because she helped me fake my death. I honestly thought she'd tell me if anyone was taking my death destructively. Apparently she didn't know about you, or I'd have come and found you much sooner. I'm so sorry, John, I simply wanted to keep you safe..." Sherlock trailed off at the look in John's eyes. Sherlock put his head in his hands.

"I forgive you, Sherlock," John said, with a worn and broken attempt at a smile. Instead of comforting Sherlock, this only made him feel worse. To John's surprise, he burst into tears.

"Sherlock?" John asked, confused at his friend's actions. Why was Sherlock crying?

"John.. You know I've never been a slave to my emotions? How I rarely let them control me?" he asked brokenly.

"Yes," John replied, warily. Sherlock looked directly in his eyes so he could read the truth there.

"I absolutely loathe myself," he said with finality in a broken voice. Then John realized it. He thought it was his fault. Quite possibly, he'd heard John's drunken yelling of his hatred of Sherlock. Which was actually ridiculously untrue.

"Sherlock, you know the only reason that I was so angry and such was because I thought I'd failed you?"

"What?" He looked up.

"I thought that the reason you'd jumped was because of the rumors. I couldn't bear the thought that somehow I'd failed you. I thought it had been my fault. I'm not angry at you, especially now since I understand why."

"You're really not angry?"

"As long as you're not angry that I stole your drugs?"

Sherlock laughed.


End file.
